Tag: Death

Have you ever looked at your life and tried to figure out how the plans you thought were taking you in one direction suddenly ended up somewhere you never envisioned? I have. And I didn’t see it coming.

On October 2, 2006, my life changed. My husband and I were married almost 10 years. I was a stay at home mom to 3 young kids (ages 7, 5 and 18 months). I thought we had a good relationship. I loved my family. Life was simple. When I woke up that morning I had no idea that before lunchtime I would become a widow, my kids would no longer have a father, and my community would face heartbreaking devastation.

My husband committed the Amish Schoolhouse shooting. My simple, predictable life was over. I could not comprehend how this man I loved, this man who loved our kids, was capable of killing children. But there was no way to deny it. Everyone asked me to answer for Charlie’s choices, but I didn’t have answers. All I held were broken pieces of the life we built and the promises we made. I felt devastated and desperate, but not without hope. God was our constant, and I knew I could trust him. He had showed me in countless ways throughout the years that he was faithful. To me, this was much bigger than anything I had faced before, but I knew he didn’t see it that way. He saw our pain, not from a distance, but from the place where we stood. That day I chose to surrender my brokenness and trust him with something I could not see my way through.

God promised redemption. And he has kept his promise. Let me tell you about our journey. You can see/hear me talk about it in this short video.

And if you find yourself walking a similarly unexpected road, know that the same God who writes his redemption story in my life is writing one in yours. Nothing is impossible. His love never fails.

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Five days after our first anniversary, my husband and I lost our daughter. I was 26 weeks pregnant and went into labor. It was hard and fast. There was nothing the doctors could do to stop it, and our daughter lived only 20 minutes. The grief and shock were intense. While I was medically fine, emotionally I was pretty sure that I would die too.

Two weeks later was Thanksgiving. I felt like I was living in some kind of alternate reality, just going through the motions of life and trying to get through it as quickly as possible. I did not want to face the holidays. I could hardly handle my grief on a normal day; I could not imagine surviving the weight of it mixed with holiday “celebrations”.

Holidays are hard when you’re grieving. Period.

That year, my parents said that they were bringing a Christmas tree, ordering pizza and helping us decorate. My mom didn’t give me space to argue. We couldn’t have done it without them. We wanted to decorate, but couldn’t muster up the strength to do it ourselves. When you’re grieving, normal life feels like walking through quick sand. Every little thing tries to pull you under.

That year, and in the time since, I’ve learned a lot about grieving. I’ve received some tremendous kindness, as well as empty words, along the way. I totally understand that if you haven’t walked through deep loss, it can feel hard to know how to help.

So I’m going to help you. These are my top 3 things that everyone needs to know.

Don’t try to fix it, because you can’t. Do not say things like, God allows things for a reason, this will make you stronger, at least they aren’t suffering anymore, or just think of all the good memories you had together. Instead, tell them you are sorry. Tell them your heart is breaking for them. Tell them that you love them and you are walking through this with them. Say it often, and with the actions to back it up (we’ll get to those next).

Be present and proactive. Don’t tell your friend to call if they need something. They won’t call. And the reason is complicated. It’s partly because they don’t know exactly what they need, partly because they don’t want to tell you how bad they hurt, and partly because they’re not sure what you really want to do. Don’t ask yes or no type questions or make open-ended statements. Instead, say something specific like, “I’m going to bring dinner one night next week, is Monday or Thursday best for you?” “Let’s go to a movie, my treat, here are the show times for tomorrow night.” “I’m going to the grocery store Friday, I’ll pick you up on the way and we can shop together.” Don’t give them space to argue.

Honor the one they’ve lost. Your grieving friend feels the pain of their loss. It’s profound. It’s piercing, and it touches everything. Grief is a pit that sucks you in, and it can feel like there’s no way out. Climb in to that pit with them, and stay there. You don’t have to say anything, no positive phrases needed. They just need to know that you’re willing to be in it with them.

Grieving is a dark, lonely place. Your love won’t heal the loss, but it will help light the way through their pain. I’m sure you’re thinking of someone right now that you could reach out to. It might feel scary to you, but embrace your fear and do it anyway. They NEED you. In the days ahead, they might just say that your love was the only reason they were able to survive the holidays.

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A freight train ran over me last week. I saw it in the distance and tried to tell myself that we weren’t on the same track. I wanted to deny the potential of what was looming on the horizon line. I wanted to turn the other way so I couldn’t see the puffs of steam getting closer. I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and hum loud enough to drown out the constant chugging. I wanted to close my eyes and pretend that I lived somewhere else, in a land untouched by grief and the Christmastime loss of my dad. I wanted all these things, but they didn’t happen, they couldn’t happen. While I saw the train coming, I was unprepared for its arrival.

I had no real expectations for Father’s Day, no distinct thoughts about my heart’s well being. I knew our schedule surrounding the day and tried to allow for a few moments of quiet time. In the midst of feeling the loss I also wanted to celebrate my husband Dan, who is an amazing father to our kids. We were going to spend the day together, and host a picnic in the evening for my family. No big deal, right? I told myself that I could do this, celebrate Dan throughout the day and honor my dad through the dinner. Sometimes though, I lie and tell myself that I’m capable of things that are way outside the realm of possibility. This was one of those times. I hoped that if I said it often enough, that it would indeed be true. In the end, a lie is still a lie.

I don’t know the precise moment when the train hit, although I would guess it was pretty much about the time my eyes opened and I took a deep breath of the morning’s gentle air. I awoke to a day I’d never faced before, my first fatherless Father’s Day. I pursed my lips and exhaled slowly, reassuring myself that I could do “this”. I rolled over and said, “Happy Father’s Day” to Dan. At the culmination of those 3 simple words, a solitary tear went streaming down my face. I knew that the game was up, my lies were over and this was going to be a very exhausting day.

By 10 am I had applied mascara 3 times, discovering that it’s practically impossible to separate and coat wet lashes. I wanted to look like my normal self even though I felt awful. I’m not a “cute crier”. My eyes get puffy and my nose gets red. No amount of makeup can hope to mask my emotion. I discovered this 20+ years ago, but I haven’t given up trying.

The day was filled with activity, some planned and some created. Constant movement seemed to be my final attempt to hold my emotions in check, when what I really wanted was to throw myself face down on my bed and weep until my eyes shed their final tear. This approach of busyness was as unsuccessful as the first.

Upon the arrival of this grief train, it parked itself in my station and refused to move. I pushed and I pulled, but I was no match for the size and weight of this train. It’s not like I haven’t grieved my dad’s death in the past 6 months. I’ve spent a lot of time pouring out my heart before the Lord, my husband and friends. I’ve gone through countless boxes of tissues since Christmas. I’ve mourned the individual and cumulative loss over our family: it covers my mom, my kids, my husband, my siblings, my nephew, and me. It’s complex. I know this well. What I did not know was that today, the loss would feel fresh and new, as if it just happened all over again. The train hit hard, pushing me back to square one where a million memories from past days played like a movie reel in my mind. The past infringed upon my future and spoke of all the things we would never do again. It was a crushing blow. My head already understood this, and while it wasn’t fresh there, I was reliving it in my heart as if I’d never felt it before.

Today there was no ability to hide behind the thoughtful processing of this loss on my family. It was all about me. This was Father’s Day. I did everything I could to change the focus, to stay busy, to maintain emotional control, but I felt helpless. I thought back one short year to a different time. My dad was battling lung cancer, he was weak from the treatment regimen, but he was here. I was thankful. Last Father’s Day we celebrated with his favorite cheese steak from a local sub shop and milkshake to wash it down. We teased that he could eat as much as he wanted—the doctor’s would love a little weight gain. The rest of us would have to ration our bites so that we didn’t pack on the pounds. We talked about “next year” when he would be feeling better and the world would be brighter. There were so many memories we wanted to make together. Now, those conversations felt like empty promises, hopeful grasping-at-straws that yielded no results.

As I stood in front of my dad’s grill, making his signature meal—burgers and hotdogs with baked beans on the side, my heart was broken into a million tiny pieces. Smoke from the grill stung my tired eyes. I’d finally stopped the trickle of tears that flowed off and on all day. Now my eyes watered from my responsibility of “head chef”. I thought to myself, “I can’t win.”

Dinner was good, dad would’ve been proud. This year we all laughed that I didn’t quite succeed in replicating his style—my burgers weren’t as dry as his typically were. On the outside I smiled, inside I sternly reminded myself that there would be no tears during the picnic.

Night finally came; darkness covered me, offering a quiet place to rest my head and cry. My responsibilities were finished and I was free to weep. The sorrow and anguish of my soul poured forth, and like the grief train, there was no stopping it now. I wept for hours. Dan laid beside me in silent support.

Finally sleep enveloped me.

Monday dawned, my eyes opened and yesterday’s emotion resurfaced. I tried to shove it away and hoped this day would be better. To some degree, it was. I still felt Sunday’s sting and wished that it would go away. As the day wore on and my emotions remained unstable I had a life-giving realization. Once again I’ve been looking with eyes of disgust at grief, when really, it calls to me as a friend. Grief offers the opportunity to validate my feelings and the legacy of the one who has left me behind. The piercing of my heart reminds me that I’m vibrantly alive; I still have the capacity to feel pain and loss, and this is wonderful.

I knew from past experience that brokenness is beautiful and suffering produces deep peaceful joy within me. So I yield myself to feel the pain completely and will allow this loss do its complete work. I will not shield my heart or turn away. Grief is like a mountain that I overcome only by tunneling through it. I step aboard this grief train. I’m not afraid of it anymore. I see the conductor give the signal—it’s time to leave the station. Methodical shoveling fuels the engine’s fire. The resulting steam puffs over my head, the chugging begins its gentle lullaby and my heart awakens to a different perspective. This train did not come to run me over; it came to take me somewhere. I don’t know where we are going, but I trust the One who’s in control of the adventure. There is a mountain that I must go through. God knows my heart, he sees the pain and he promises beautiful redemption for my pain. This knowledge doesn’t make the loss any easier, but it promises that loss is not the end; it is the beginning.

As we depart the station and head out of town I settle into my seat. I look out the window and see familiar places; I wonder how long it will take to get through the mountain. I lay my head against the glass and close my eyes. The gentle bumping of the tracks settles me. Shallow breaths become deep and steady. I feel a new invitation come as Jesus extends his hand and offers me a place of rest. He sees my weariness; he knows I need stamina for this trip. He asks me to close my eyes and lean into him. Jesus offers safety and peace. I don’t have to figure it out. I simply have to trust that he is holding all the pieces in his hand and that somehow he will make a beautiful mosaic out of my tear stained shards of glass. His rest envelops me, this time it’s different. This rest does not simply cover my sorrow; it infuses me with strength and a promise:

“Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy.” Psalm 126:5 NIV

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He is Father to the fatherless, defender of the widow– words from the pages of scripture (Psalm 68:5) also applicable to my life. Fatherless and widow, these words evoke heartbreaking emotion, a tragic embrace of nightmare and dream—my reality. 6 years ago I became a widow, less than 8 months later God redeemed my life and gave me a new name; I was once again a wife. The pathway between these 2 life events was, in essence, my own “yellow brick road”. However, instead of seeking a wizard, I went in search of the One who sheltered me, strengthened me and lead me along paths of life. As I found him I also grew in the knowledge of myself, shrugging off the shell of who I thought I was, embracing a purer version of who God says I am. I found freedom, I found hidden treasures, and I found a confidence to simply be me. Through this journey I heard the voice of Holy Spirit, my constant companion, in simplicity each day. Sometimes I tried to make it complicated, but he stepped in, saving me from myself, settling my spirit and renewing my heart to trust. As I walked through desert places, His presence was a geyser of crisp, clear water. I drank him down, longing to fill and satisfy the unquenchable thirst burning deep within.

One of the many truths revealed inside the deep recesses of my heart was this- in the midst of loss there is a void which must be filled, God has come to fill it with love and life; His brightly beaming dreams. He asked me to trust enough to dream again, living limitless in an otherwise severely limited world. It’s my choice- vulnerability in his presence, giving over this territory to the one who loves beyond comprehension. If I decline his embrace, darkness will invade choking out any hope of illumination; there are only 2 choices.

It’s not easy; it’s intentional. Dreaming through grief requires intense determination, unwavering concentration and every bit of available strength; it’s exhausting, but oh so worth it! As I embraced God’s dream, my GPS shifted to a new location, one far beyond the dimly lit city I currently inhabited. My compass pointed towards a land of infinite possibility and undeniable potential. Fresh life greeted me each morning; dew kissed droplets shimmered upon the carpet of my life, beckoning the steps that carried me forward into a beautiful destiny. Sorrows from the day before, now recycled, they were the essence of promise filled dreams awaiting a dreamer. The tender moisture washed my feet, removing debris, refreshing weariness and redefining direction. Bittersweet moments mingled, cascading across my taste buds; extreme contrasts heightened my senses causing an awareness of startling beauty, paralyzing pain, and their ability to coexist within my world. The brilliance of a heavenly glow gave light to the dreamer, bringing forth promises far beyond human frailty.

I can’t imagine life any other way now, and yet, I know the price of those moments—they cost everything. The past 4 weeks have plunged me back into a similar season, one defined by loss, days suffocated by grief; but still He beckons me to dream. This time I am tired, weary from intense battle, I weigh the price against the promise. I stand in surrendered silence knowing there is really only 1 choice; I desperately desire life, and it’s sweet surge of fresh fire coursing through my veins. I take a deep breath, knowing there is no turning back, and submit myself to the light.

Father to the fatherless, life without my dad crushes me. I don’t know how to dream through it, and so I wait, again. It’s the same way I’ve been waiting these 4 weeks, pouring out sorrow, yearning for refreshing rains to fall upon this parched ground. Fatigue intensifies my loss, threatening to cripple me, raising a deafening cry of death against the life inside me. In that moment my Father speaks strong authority in softness, “Enough”, death’s cry is silenced; drops of rain begin to fall. Slow and steady they dance across my heart proclaiming promises of deeper connection to the One who formed me, He who knows the silent cry inside. He is my Father, he will be the father to this fatherless child, and I will find him in still deeper ways. So I stand, arms lifted high, head bowed low, welcoming the One who fathers me. His love is near; he draws me into his embrace, I press my face against his chest, and listen to the sound of his heart as it beats out the rhythm of my name. His love awakens me, rekindling the fire inside, igniting the spark of one new dream, and for now, that is enough.